


By the Numbers

by shoemaster



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoemaster/pseuds/shoemaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accountant AU! Frank is an accountant, Gerard is an artist. Romcom ensues</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone at wrote this at, and Etben for the beta. Posted 12/2007

Frank is about to call Michael - Mikey - to make sure he has the right address, when the door finally opens. The man standing inside looks a little bit like a mad scientist, if Dr. Frankenstein had traded his lab coat for black jeans and a purple My Little Pony shirt.

Frank's pretty sure that this is Mikey's brother - who else could it be? - but the guy is just _staring_ at him, like Frank's a space alien or something similarly strange. "Gerard Way? I'm Frank Iero - the accountant your brother hired." Then again, to him, maybe accountants _are_ space aliens.

That seems to snap Gerard out of it, and he nods. "Right, right, well, come on in. I don't really think I need one of you guys, but Mikey insisted and, you know. Whatever."

He gestures as he talked, his cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in the air. "Should I give you like, a tour or something?"

Frank shakes his head, which always makes his glasses slightly askew; he pushes them back into place with the back of his hand. "I don't think that will be necessary - if you can just show me where you keep your financial information, that'll be fine."

Frank doesn't bother pointing out that he doesn't need a tour because the apartment is basically one giant room with a mattress in one corner and art supplies _everywhere else_. There are two doors, which he's betting lead to a closet and the bathroom.

Sure enough, Gerard opens the door on the far wall to reveal a closet, which he rifles through, muttering to himself.

"A ha!" he cries out, emerging with a...gallon of paint?

"Please tell me that's empty," Frank says before he can stop himself. Gerard doesn't seem like the kind of guy that would complain to Frank's firm about him being mouthy, but it's still probably better if he doesn't test it.

Gerard shakes his head. "It's not empty; this is where all my stuff is. Like, business stuff and whatever."

Of course.

There really isn't any room in Gerard's place for Frank to work - but he's not convinced that the paint can holds all the information he's going to need, so he's hesitant about returning to the office. Instead, Gerard rigs up a table with plywood and milk crates next to his bed.

"Sorry," he says, "I had chairs once, I think? But then I was doing these sculptures and they must have been cannibalized." He shrugs. "It's not like I have a whole lot of visitors anyway."

So Frank sits on the edge of Gerard's bed, hunched over the makeshift table, and starts sorting through the paint can, operating on the assumption that it's like fossils or geology or something, with the new stuff on the top and the old stuff on the bottom.

That's a bit optimistic, as it turns out. Two hours later, he has a series of semi-organized piles and a pounding headache.

"I'm going to get some coffee," he says, standing up carefully. "Did you want anything?"

"Oooh, yes please. I just- hold on," Gerard says, digging through a pile of clothes on the floor.

Frank was planning to just ask for his order, but Gerard's already pulling on his jacket and a very green scarf. Frank thinks it might have feathers, but he's afraid of looking at it for long enough to find out. His optometrist is always on his case about abusing his eyes, anyway, no need to make it worse.

*

Frank's tie is more out of place in the hipster coffee shop down the street than Gerard's scarf thing, but he's okay with that - all he wants is coffee.

"Jon," Gerard sighs, "I need two lattes as big as my head."

"Two, Gerard? You're going to give your self a heart attack and no one will know except me, because you won't come in here for three days."

"They're not both for me, I have a guest," Gerard explains. He gestures in Frank's direction, nearly smacking him in the face in the process.

"Oh, the IRS guy. You're buying him coffee?" Jon asks, confused.

"I'm not from the IRS," Frank says, "I'm an _accountant._" People always get that wrong. "It's my job to make sure the IRS _doesn't_ come after Gerard. And he's not paying, I am."

"I just sold a painting, dude, I can totally get this."

Frank shrugs, "If I buy yours, I can expense it."

"And that's a good thing?" Gerard asks, grabbing a handful of sugar packets.

"Yes," Frank says simply, looking away from the coffee stirrer hanging out of Gerard's mouth.

Frank is impressed when the coffee really is as big as his head. It manages to keep him sane for the rest of the afternoon, but five o'clock rolls around eventually, and Frank doesn't think Gerard should start paying him overtime yet. (Hazard pay, yes: he's had to pick globs of paint off of receipts only to find that the thermal paper isn't too fond of high gloss acrylic whatever.)

"I should get going," he says, packing his stuff back into his briefcase.

"Oh, uhm. Okay," Gerard says from his corner of the room. "Are you going to be back tomorrow?"

"Uh." Frank hadn't been planning on it - he thought he'd bundle his piles together and take them back to the office to work on. On the other hand - "Yeah. I'll be here around nine."

"Cool!" Gerard says. "I'll get bagels."

*

The second day at Gerard's apartment is a lot like the first day, except Frank actually knows what to expect going in and his table has already been built. It's not the most comfortable place Frank's ever worked - the bed was meant for sleeping and, well, not sitting on for hours at a time.

Gerard leaves around noon for some meeting with a gallery and Frank takes the time to look at some of the half finished pieces lying around the place. He'd gotten a little curious when he'd seen the sale receipts from the galleries and ones Gerard had just sold directly. The ones Gerard sold directly usually had titles like "the one where the sun destroys the vampire but he melts like the wicked witch" instead of "Lot #42876" - more informative, and more interesting.

Looking around the place, Frank can sometimes tell why Gerard titled them the way he did, and the prices start to make a little more sense. Frank knows fuck all about art, but he can tell that they're _good_. It's hard for him to go back to his table and focus on the numbers again, his eyes keep catching on the unfinished canvases surrounding him.

Gerard comes back from his meeting with two huge cups of coffee; he puts one down in front of Frank with a grin before disappearing behind the counter that separates the 'kitchen' from the rest of the room. Frank can't help grinning back.

"Are you going to be here tomorrow, too?"

"Mm, Friday right? No," Frank answers, breathing in the coffee like the caffeine is airborne. "I have to go see another client."

"Oh," Gerard says, turning towards the sink. "Okay."

*

On Tuesday, Frank is back at his desk - his _real_ desk - and things are good. He'd actually started to miss his office and his ergonomically correct chair. And, okay, the coffee isn't as good as the stuff he can get when he's out meeting with clients, but it's a lot closer and kind of free.

He's sorting through his files, trying to figure out what's the most important, when the phone rings. "This is Frank Iero."

"I found a shoe box with a bunch of receipts inside, and I don't know if you need them or if I can use them in my next project."

"Oh, uh, hey, Gerard." Frank sighs, setting the file folder back on his desk. "That depends on what kind of receipts they are and when they're from."

"Um." Gerard shuffles some paper. "Well, this one is from the grocery store, and this is from Hans's - that awesome store uptown that's always spilling out in the alley. Have you ever been there?"

"No," Frank says, taking off his glasses. "What do they sell there?"

"Oh, all sorts of stuff," Gerard enthuses. "I found the coolest headband there once, and I could just spend hours in there." Having seen the inside of Gerard's apartment, Frank doesn't doubt him.

"That's awesome, but have you used any of it for your work?" Frank asks, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye.

"Sometimes, yeah."

"If there's anything related to supplies, or to business trips from the past five years, put those aside for me, okay? The rest, you can just throw away."

"I'm not going to throw them _away_, Frank," Gerard says, disapproving. "I'm going to make a collage."

Based on what he's seen at Gerard's, Frank makes an interested noise. "That sounds cool."

"You should totally come see it when it's done," Gerard agrees.

Frank can see his boss walking towards his desk. "Yeah, okay. Did you have any other questions?"

"Awesome!" Gerard says hanging up, completely ignoring Frank's question. He assumes that means Gerard didn't have any.

After Gerard calls, Frank makes a note to swing by his apartment within the next couple of days, get those receipts. He's not expecting Gerard to show up at his office, and he's definitely not expecting him to be sitting in Frank's chair making a chain out of Frank's multicolored paper clips when Frank gets back from a meeting.

"Gerard, hi," Frank says after staring at the way his hands deftly link the office supplies together. He's less annoyed at the intrusion than he would be if Greta was trying to reorganize his post-its or Gabe tried to steal his chair again (Frank had waited a long time for Andy to get that job at the NRC so Frank could inherit this chair).

"Hi!" Gerard says, spinning around in Frank's chair. He pushed off a little too hard though, and crashes into Frank's paper shredder.

"Shit," Frank says, reaching for Gerard's shoulder to pull him back. "Don't hurt yourself."

Gerard's grinning at him. "I'm fine, really. I brought all the receipts you told me to."

"Good, good," Frank says, taking the paper-filled produce bag from his desk. "This will help a lot, thanks."

"No problem," Gerard says. He's still grinning at Frank, but Frank doesn't know _why_, so he just tugs at his tie and watches Gerard from the corner of his eye.

"Was there anything else?" Frank asks.

"I-" Gerard begins. "No, I should let you go back to work."

"Right," Frank nods. "And you probably have some art to be creating."

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, standing up. "I'll see you later."

"Okay."

Before Gerard goes, he takes the chain he made and affixes it to the wall of Frank's cubicle with four thumb tacks.

"Bye, Frank!" he says, slipping towards the elevator.

"Bye," Frank answers, watching him go. "Wait! You forgot your coffee!"

But Gerard's face has already disappeared behind the steel doors. It's a shame, because it feels like the cup is full - Frank feels a little guilty drinking it, but it's not like he can give it back to Gerard the next time he sees him.

*

Gerard calls again on Thursday. "I sold another piece," he says, "do you need the receipt?"

Frank wonders if he ever introduces himself. "Huh? No, that's for this year, I'm working on last year's. I won't need that until next year."

"Oh," Frank can't be certain, but he thinks Gerard sounds disappointed.

"Do me a favor?" Frank asks.

"Totally!" Gerard agrees quickly.

"Buy a folder. Put that sales receipt inside. Put all your sales receipts inside. Hell, get two and put all your supply purchases in the other one."

Gerard laughed, "What's wrong with the paint can?"

"Gerard, don't make me beg," Frank said, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder, so he can mark his progress on the Johnson account before Gerard distracts him. "It'll make my life so much easier next year."

"As awesome as the begging thing sounds, I think I picked up some folders back in August - back to school sale, you know? I don't know what I thought I'd use them for since Lisa Frank is like, copyrighted."

Frank can't help laughing at that. "Did you get the dancing bears or the dolphins?"

"Fuck that shit," Gerard says, but Frank can hear him smiling. "It's all about the ballerina bunnies."

*

"This is Frank Iero," he says, answering the phone.

"Mikey called and reminded me that he set up a retirement something for me. Is that important?"

It's Gerard, of course, as carefree as ever. It makes a nice change: the rest of Frank's clients usually sound a little nervous, like their accountant is going to flay them alive over the phone for calling. Which, like - that wouldn't even be possible, unless you had like some super specialized frequency, and even then - Frank realizes that he's yet to answer Gerard's question. "It depends on what kind it is-"

Gerard cuts him off. "I think the whole thing is stupid. What do I need a retirement plan for? It's not like I ever want to retire." He sighs, annoyed. "I'm an _artist_ \- and I don't mean that in an annoying pretentious way, I just. How could I ever stop?"

"You could get arthritis or something, or if you stuff stops selling-"

"Dude, that happens now!" Gerard laughs, a little. "I mean, not the arthritis thing, but the selling? Sometimes it's months between sales, and Jon has to take pity on me and comp me my coffee, but Mikey won't let me touch it. What's up with _that_?"

"If you haven't made any withdrawals from the account, you should be okay." Frank frowns, thinking it over. "Do you know how much has been put into the account? Depending on how much has been deposited, you may be able to write it off-"

"And that's a good thing!" Gerard says.

"Yes."

"I've been paying attention. Oh, dude, I was in the book store the other day and do you know how many guides they have to doing your own taxes? It's insane; there's the Idiots Guide, the For Dummies, and about a million more and they all weigh a ton. People hate this stuff, don't they?"

"Yeaaah," Frank says slowly. He's heard just about every joke there is about taxes and the IRS. And, fine - it's probably not even possible to make it through life without knowing a few. When everybody you meet tells you the two or three they know, though, it starts to add up.

"But you!" Gerard says, and it doesn't sound like the lead-up to any of the jokes Frank's heard. "You volunteer to do it for other people, and that's, like. So cool."

"It's not like I do it pro-bono," Frank points out. That's actually a lie, since he sometimes goes down to the centers where they help low income families sort things out and maximize their returns. Still, though, "It's my job."

Gerard laughs at that. "You couldn't pay me enough."

"I like numbers, they make sense." Frank can tell he's getting defensive, knows it and hates it. He shouldn't be doing this - Gerard isn't treating him like he's a freak because he likes doing his job - but he can't help it. "Listen, do you know anything about your retirement fund or should I just call Mikey?"

"Uh," Gerard sounds a little taken aback. Fuck, Frank didn't mean to sound so snappish. "You should probably call Mikey."

"Okay then, will do. I'll talk to you later, Gerard."

"Bye, Frank," Gerard says quietly before hanging up.

Shit fuck damn. Frank takes a minute to let his head fall onto his desk and just leave it there. After a moment of wallowing, he's up again, scrolling through his contacts for _Way, Michael_ and grabbing his phone again.

Frank finishes up Gerard's filing that week, and couriers over the files for him to sign, with a note that says Blue or black ink only :). It isn't until after they're returned that he realizes he was expecting a phone call from Gerard - not that signing where the X's are is that difficult; Frank just thought that maybe...

It's probably better that he didn't, since it's the middle of March and he's only going to get more busy from here. He doesn't need to waste his time at the office talking with disorganized artists who forget their coffee at his desk, no matter how much their out-there statements make Frank smile.

*

"Why so glum, chum?" Greta asks on their way to lunch. They made a rule last year: they're only allowed to eat at their desk four times a week during tax season.

Frank shrugs. "Nothing."

She punches him in the arm. "Don't lie to me, you know you're terrible at it."

Frank glares at her and rubs his arm. "There was a guy and. It was stupid. It's not like there was anything going on, so it's not like I fucked anything up."

"Frankie. What did you do?"

"He just." Frank sighs, shaking his head. "He kind of did that 'I can't believe you like your job' thing and I got annoyed. So what if I'm not an _artist_, what we do is important - and I do like my job, damn it."

"Defensive much?" Greta asks, patting his shoulder and holding the door to the sushi place open for him.

"Shut up, Greta. Not all of us can rock the office romance the same way you do." Frank sulks, a little, but he's allowed to; Gabe and Greta are disgustingly cute together.

Greta snorts, sliding into her seat. "You're just jealous." But she lets it drop, and Frank's grateful.

*

For the next month Frank sees his apartment for maybe twenty minutes a day, the ten minutes it takes him to get ready in the morning and the ten minutes it takes for him to fall asleep at night. None of his clients are as interesting as Gerard, and he does his best not to resent them for it.

He's in the drugstore one night picking up more Advil and lens cleaner for his glasses and accidentally winds up in the school supplies aisle.

The Lisa Frank pencils fall into his basket accidentally.

*

Half of Frank's office calls in on April sixteenth, and on the seventeenth they all go out for drinks after work. The bar they go to is used to them, thank god, and just keeps the beer, the shots and the fruity drinks Frank will only admit to liking after more than a few of the former coming all night long.

This year though, this year, the bar has karaoke. It isn't until after two appletini's that Greta convinces Frank to get up on stage. He's not a huge Neil Diamond fan or anything, but he's pretty sure anyone that's ever been to a frat party ever knows the words to _Sweet Caroline_.

Greta does her part, leading the rest of the staff in the BA BA BAs and yelling "SO GOOD SO GOOD" at the top of her lungs.

When he stumbles off the stage he's ready to tell her all about the band he had his first year of college. "Pencey Prep, man. I could scream like no motherfuck _knows_. We even put out a record but fuck, we blew it before it was even released."

"Awww, poor Frankie," Greta coos, patting his shoulder.

"But if you weren't my accountant who would make sure the IRS wouldn't come after my ass?" a very familiar voice says from behind him.

Frank spins around and maybe loses his balance a little bit. "Gerard!"

Gerard catches his arm with a grin, "Hi."

"Hi," Frank says back, leaning into the touch.

"Is everyone here an accountant?" Gerard asks.

"Yep." That isn't actually true. Gabe is from HR, but he's also _hilarious_, and he keeps buying everyone tequila shots. With that kind of incentive, they're willing to over look a few minor details. "People think we're like, stuffy and shit, but we _know how to party_."

"Apparently," Gerard agrees, guiding Frank off the impromptu dance floor. Gabe is singing "Dancing Queen" - and Frank loves Gabe, and he loves this song. He loves _ABBA_.

Gerard is laughing at him, which is Frank's first clue that he might've said that out loud. "What, don't you like ABBA?"

"Dude, I love ABBA."

"Good!" Frank says, grabbing Gerard's hands. "You should dance with me."

And maybe it isn't so much dancing with Frank as it is Gerard being the one he comes twirling back to after he hits nearly everyone else on the floor - but whatever. They're having fun.

"Is it hot in here or is it just me?" Frank asks. This is maybe the most activity his body has been subject to (with the exception of his hands) in months. He's sweating through his shirt.

"Uh." Gerard is staring at him with a nervous sort of smile.

"_I'm hot_," Frank says again and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Gabe's winding down on stage, so Frank waves it above his head before launching it at the stage. He's got an undershirt on underneath, but Gerard is staring at him again, or maybe still.

"I-" Gerard starts, swallowing hard. "You have tattoos."

"Yep!" Frank says, "I wanted to be a rock star. A _punk_ rock star. Tattoos are like, a law." Gerard reaches out to touch the anchor on Frank's bicep, and Frank sways toward him. "I got that one second, want to see the rest?"

"I-" Gerard's thumb is tracing the 'N' and the 'J' on Frank's arm. "Okay?"

Frank spins around and tugs at the neck of his undershirt, pulling it out of the way. "I got this one on my eighteenth birthday."

"It's a pumpkin!" Gerard says. "Why is it a pumpkin?"

"Because my birthday is on Halloween, duh." He'd wanted to get knuckle tattoos, so everyone would know - but he'd been studying for the CPA exam when he had the idea, and it wouldn't have worked out.

"Right, of course," Gerard says, squeezing the back of Frank's neck. "I should've known."

"Best birthday ever," Frank says solemnly before spinning back to face Gerard, lifting his shirt above his belly button. "And these are my birds. I was gonna do this whole other thing, but I was kinda broke for a while there."

Gerard is biting his lip and staring at Frank's tattoos. Frank likes the way it's all pink and white - it's like art, almost. Like Gerard's art.

"Gerard, Gerarrrd. Gerard," Frank says, playing with the way Gerard's name rolls off his tongue.

"Yeah, Frankie?"

Things are getting kind of fuzzy for Frank, but he can't seem to stop talking. "You gotta. You gotta not call me."

Gerard's face goes all white at that, and it isn't as pretty. "I- okay, uh."

"You always called me at work and my boss gets all pissy. Gotta not call me at work."

"I only did that a couple of times," Gerard points out.

"You should've called me on my cell, then I could've talked to you lots more," Frank continues, swaying closer to Gerard - standing up is getting kind of hard.

Gerard's lip is doing that pink and white thing again. "You never gave me your cell phone number."

"Shoulda," Frank says, sagging against Gerard. Gerard catches him, and Frank thinks he feels Gerard laugh against his hair - but then Greta's there.

"Frankie, honey," she says, "why don't you let go of the pretty man, so Gabe and I can take you home?"

Frank blinks at her. "I don't wanna."

"Gabe'll give you a piggy back ride if you promise not to throw up on him," she offers, peeling his hands from Gerard's back.

"Okay!" Frank goes lurching toward Gabe. Gabe is tall, and he gives the best piggyback rides.

"Well, I feel like chopped liver," Gerard says from behind him.

*

Things go kind of fuzzy for Frank after that. He wakes up the next morning with a blinding headache, predictably, but there's a Brita full of water and a bottle of extra strength aspirin next to his bed. He takes about half of both and rolls back over to sleep for another four hours. He doesn't notice the text message from an unknown number until he's finally ready for food around six.

_now i no what acctnts r rly like. cant hide it n e more._

Frank stares at his phone for twenty minutes before it all slides into place, and oh, _shit_. What the fuck had he been thinking? He'd practically thrown himself at a _client_. That's one surefire way to fuck up his objectivity, and probably also his job.

There's a voice in his head - a voice that sounds a lot like Gabe, funnily enough - pointing out that he didn't try to get in Gerard's pants until after the forms were filed, but still: shit.

All the same, even knowing how fucked he is, Frank can't help replying with a _well now we have 2 kill u._

The reply is almost instant - _i could take u_ \- and Frank's brain goes from zero to dirty in approximately 0.35 seconds. He has to drop his phone on the counter so he doesn't reply _yes please_. Instead, after another bowl of cornflakes, he texts back _id like 2 c u try_.

He's not sure how Gerard will reply to that one, but he comes up with a few responses on his own and scenarios that spin off from there in the shower. He spends ten minutes after that just relaxing under the spray.

The worst thing is, he doesn't even know why Gerard was there last night. He'd blame Greta - it's usually a safe bet, especially where the disaster that is Frank's love life is concerned - but he never mentioned Gerard's name, and she wouldn't have had the time to put in the kind of creepy stalker stuff to get his info from Frank's computer.

He rubs his hair down with a towel and checks his phone - no replies at all, let alone a sexy one. Right, then. Fine.

He leaves it on the table and wanders back to his bedroom to get clothes on, but before he's through the doorway his phone starts buzzing across the counter the tinny voice of Henry Rollins starting shouting out of the speaker. Frank freezes, uncertain, and then launches himself back across the carpet, losing his towel along the way. He's going to be really disappointed if it's his mom. If it's his mom, he'll call her back once he has clothes on.

It's not his mom, it's Gerard's name flashing on the screen; Frank's pressing TALK and answering without thinking twice. "Hey-"

"Now, I may not be a badass Neil Diamond-singing accountant, but I think you're underestimating the strength and agility of the common artist." Gerard says, low and teasing. "Not to mention the _creativity_."

Frank grins, "I don't know, I don't think artists are ruthless enough."

"I'll ruthless you!" Gerard challenges, and once again, Frank's brain is sky diving into the gutter. Suddenly, he's very aware of the fact that he's standing in his kitchen, talking to Gerard, _naked_.

Frank makes a strangled noise.

"Are you feeling okay? You were a little…"

"Blitzed," Frank offers, wondering if he can fashion a toga from the blanket on the couch, and whether that would be more or less weird.

"-last night. I would've called earlier but I didn't think you'd be alive."

"Yeah, uh," Frank rejects the toga idea, since he's not sure he'd know how to make one, anyway. "I just had food and I'm feeling okay."

"Oh good," Gerard sounds genuinely glad for Frank's stomach. "Listen, uh. I've got a gallery opening on Thursday, and that piece I was telling you about is gonna be in it. The one with the receipts and stuff?" It's hard to tell, over the phone, but it sounds like Gerard's smiling. "I promise I didn't use anything important."

"Hey, that's awesome!" Frank says.

"Yeah, it is. It turned out great, too. I was thinking you should come and check it out. It's, like, half dedicated to you anyway."

Frank holds his breath for a second. Is this a date kind of thing? Or a 'hey, you worked your magic on my tax return, let me show you what I can do, buddy!' -type thing - which, come to think of it, is maybe a little gay, too.

"You can bring your friend Greta and piggyback ride guy," Gerard offers when Frank fails to respond. "Or just not come at all. Weird art stuff isn't everyone's thing-"

"No!" Frank says, "I, yeah, I'd love to come. I'll see if Gabe and Greta have plans, but yeah. Count me in."

"Cool!" Gerard's definitely grinning now. "It starts at 8, but if you want to get there a little early I can show you around, I'll put you on the list - Gabe and Greta, too."

"Sure!" Frank tries not to sound too excited, and probably fails.

Gerard rattles off an address. "So I'll see you there?" he asks.

"Absolutely," Frank agrees. And, okay, he does recognize that that's the start of the end of their conversation, and he should hang up and go put on pants - but he doesn't want to. Not yet. "Oh, hey. What were you doing at the Whet Whistle last night? It's not exactly your part of town."

"Oh, I was supposed to meet up with a friend, he lives a few blocks from the bar, but I got stood up," Gerard explains.

"That's too bad," Frank says.

"Yeah, I was about to call it a wash when the loud group in the corner sent a guy up on stage. Pretty much made my night."

"Well, I'm glad I could help." Frank is totally not blushing. His skin is just still red from the hot water. Right. "I should let you go."

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

"But I'll see you Thursday."

"Bye, Frankie."

Frank gets dressed just in time for a big night with the stuff Netflix sent a month ago. If he's grinning like an idiot, it's all because of the movie: that's his story, and he's sticking to it.

*

On Monday, Greta shows up at his desk with muffins. Frank isn't dumb enough to think that these muffins don't come with an ulterior motive, but he also isn't dumb enough to turn down Greta's muffins (even when Gabe hasn't switched in the special butter).

He barely has the little paper wrapper thing off before she asks, "So, how did you fare on Saturday?"

"I was hungover like a mother fucker. What was in those drinks?"

"Alcohol, honey. Alcohol," she answers, patting his hand. She's laughing at his expense, and not even trying to hide it.

"You know," Frank says, glaring just a little. "I remember when you were the new kid, fresh from Chicago, all sweet and bright eyed. What happened to her?"

Greta laughs, "It's sweet, that you believed that. Any interesting phone calls?"

She's not exactly subtle. "So you're the one who gave him my number."

"He asked so nicely, and you looked…willing," Greta raises an eyebrow. "Was I wrong?"

"No," and he's glad she did, actually, but she can't go getting ideas.

"So who was he? You don't usually get that friendly that fast."

Frank picks at his muffin, "Remember the guy I got all annoyed at last month?"

"If by annoyed you mean pissy, yes."

He throws the rolled up wrapper at her. "It was him. And yeah. He called on Saturday."

Greta stares at him expectantly, but Frank keeps picking at his muffin. "He called _and_? What did he say?"

"He has a gallery show or something on Thursday, and he asked me if I wanted to go." Frank says that last bit kinda fast, but it doesn't fool Greta.

"As his date, right?"

Frank shrugs, nibbles the muffin. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean, you don't _think_ so? He did or he didn't."

Frank shrugs again. "Well, he invited you and Gabe, too."

Greta grabs the bridge of her nose. "But _how_ did he invite you? What words?"

Frank stares at her. She's greatly overestimating his brain's processing capabilities at the time, fresh out of the shower and talking to Gerard while naked. "I don't know! He just did."

"Did he sound casual? Nervous? Excited?"

Gabe chooses that exact moment to stroll past Frank's desk. "Oooh, are we talking phone sex?"

"I'll catch you up later," Greta promises, grabbing his ass. Gabe grins at her and waggles his eyebrows at Frank.

"Fucker doesn't even know about-" Frank shoves his muffin in his mouth to cut himself off, but it's too late.

"Know about _what_, Frankie?" Greta asks, leaning forward.

Frank points to his mouth - it's full! He can't talk with his mouth full! And it's going to stay that way until she leaves, because Frank is not an idiot.

Greta waits for him to chew and swallow, but when it becomes apparent that Frank has no intention of doing so, she leans over and pinches his nose closed. It's either choke and/or pass out, or swallow and spill. Greta's cute, but she's also _devious_

Frank doesn't want to die just yet, so he swats her hands away and swallows the muffin quickly. "I'd just gotten out of the shower," he mumbles.

"Ooooh," Greta squeals. "So you were just wearing one of those tiny towels?" Frank wonders if she's supposed to be perving on him quite that blatantly when Gabe is _right down the hall_, probably listening to every word they say. Then he remembers Gabe would've said the same thing, although he can't decide if that makes him feel better or worse.

He ducks his head, "Yeah, towel. So are you gonna come on Thursday or not?"

"Oh, Frank, we wouldn't miss it for the world."

*

Frank can't tell if Thursday comes too slowly or too soon, but either way, it's here. He's standing in front of his closet, feeling like a high schooler about to go on his first date - if this even is a date. Frank still isn't sure. After an exceptionally pathetic half hour, in which he realizes he can't remember ever going to an art gallery that wasn't a museum, he gives in and calls Gerard.

"Frank!" Gerard says into the phone. Frank can hear voices echoing the background.

"Hey, Gerard, I, uh-" Frank begins.

"Are you. I mean - " Gerard stops, then starts again. "Did something come up? It's cool, I mean, you have other stuff going on, and it's just an art show, and-" Gerard's words are flowing fast over the phone, like he's been expecting a call like this.

"No. Gerard. No. I'm still coming," Frank cuts him off. "I just don't." He sighs, rolling his eyes at himself. "Greta called me and asked what she was supposed to wear, if it's formal or casual or that weird in between place where I'm supposed to wear a suit jacket over a shirt that has holes in it and dress pants that are falling apart."

"Oh." Frank can hear Gerard take a deep breath. "Wait, Greta wants to know if you should wear pants with holes in them?"

Frank laughs nervously. "Shut up, okay, I've never been to a big gallery thing like this."

"It isn't _that_ big," Gerard says. "So if you want to wear half a shirt, that sounds good to me."

Frank is glad Gerard can't see him turn red over the phone. "I- okay. I should finish getting dressed then. You probably have things to set up."

"Not reall- I mean, never mind. Yeah, I'll see you when you get here."

*

Frank meets Gabe and Greta outside the gallery as he tugs nervously at the sleeve of his jacket.

"Oh don't you look _precious_," coos Gabe.

Frank bats at Gabe's hands when they go for his hair. "Dude, come on."

"Yeah, Gabe, leave him alone, he wanted to look nice for his date," Greta says, smirking at him.

"It's not a- I hate you both," Frank says resisting the urge to shove one or both of them into traffic. Fortunately for Greta and Gabe, Gerard comes outside just then; he smiles brightly when he sees them. Frank has to focus on not bouncing up and down like a freak.

"Hey! You made it!" Gerard leans over to give Greta a hug. "Thanks for coming."

"It's our pleasure," she tells him.

Gerard turns to Gabe next, offering his hand. "Gabe, right?"

Gabe takes Gerard's hand, then pulls him in for a hug. "Nice to meet you, Gerard." He leers at Frank over Gerard's shoulder and mimes grabbing for his ass. Frank is going to have to kill him.

Gerard pulls back, looking less flustered than most people do when first faced with Gabe's - with Gabe. He then turns to Frank and there's an awkward moment where they both realize that Gabe and Greta have totally set the precedent for hugging. They take an awkward step towards each other, but a bored looking guy shows up in the doorway. "Gee, the gallery dude wants to see you for something."

Gerard steps back and gives Frank an awkward grin before turning towards the door. "Oh, uh, thanks Mikey. Do you want to show these guys where the champagne and stuff is?"

"The accountants, right? Yeah, sure." Mikey waves them all inside while Gerard disappears off to talk to some suit.

Mikey leads them to the hors d'oeuvres table, all cheese and crackers and cold cuts and bottle after bottle of champagne.

"So is all of this stuff Gerard's?" Frank asks, looking at the paintings and sculptures arranged well - artfully - around the gallery. Some of them are familiar, but others he can't wait to look at more closely, recognizes bits and pieces from his visits to Gerard's apartment.

"Most of them, but there are a few pieces by a friend of mine," Gerard says from behind Frank's shoulder.

Frank turns his head to grin back at him. "They look great, from what I've seen."

"Do you want me to give you the tour?" Gerard grins. "I can practice talking about the 'deeper meaning' before the rest of the crowd gets here."

"Yeah, I'd love one," Frank agrees quickly. Remembering that there are other people there, he turns to Gabe and Greta, "How about you guys?"

"Sure, I'd like to see what you can do," Greta says, nudging Frank forward and pulling Gabe along behind her.

Gerard leads them toward the first painting. Frank stays close, but he likes to think it's not _too_ close, or at least not close enough to be weird. Anyway, creepy or not, Gerard's smiling at him when he starts explaining how this one is about this one was meant to be a commission, but "the woman wanted like, a sun rise, but then the sun blew up and rained down on the ocean and made fish sticks, and I don't think that's what she was paying me for."

Frank has to laugh. "Is that what you're going to tell all the, what? Critics and buyers? You're going to tell them it's a picture of fish sticks?" He tilts his head at the canvas, trying to see what Gerard was telling him about.

"Nah, I make up something about a reflection of some aspect of society, global warming, you know. But really? It's fish sticks." Gerard looks at Frank and pushes Frank's head to the other side. "Just don't go telling anyone else."

"We promise," Greta says.

Gerard leads them to the next painting and glances back at Frank. "So you decided to wear a whole shirt?"

Frank isn't sure, but he thinks Gerard sounds disappointed. "Uh, yeah, my half shirts were all in the laundry."

"Shame," Gerard says, his fingers brushing against Frank's hip. Every nerve cell in Frank's body jumps to attention.

Greta kicks the back of his foot and Frank's head whips around so he can glare at her, completely destroying...whatever was going on there. Gabe isn't any better; he's miming a blowjob with his fist and his tongue.

Frank really needs new friends. There's Bob, who lives down the hall; Frank bets that Bob wouldn't pull shit like this.

He nods along to Gerard's explanation of the next few pieces trying to figure out how to make Gerard do that again, touch him again. So he stands a little closer and bumps his shoulder against Gerard's as he talks, and Gerard shoots him little grins.

"I wanted to show you this one," Gerard says, leading Frank with a hand in the middle of his back. Gabe and Greta are hanging back, looking at the work of the other artist, Travis something, which is good. Frank's okay with a little alone time.

It's the collage Gerard was talking about, but Frank's idea of a collage was lacking, compared to this. It's got three layers that Frank can see: monopoly money and other fake cash on top. The layers are peeled back, though, separating from the canvas below, where Gerard's receipts are stuck to the canvas as well. Then that layer is cut open to show a paperless layer of a sharp red flecked with black and orange, like someone set fire to a pool of blood.

He can feel Gerard staring at him, waiting for a response.

"Holy shit," Frank breathes, unable to take his eyes off it.

"So you like it?" Gerard asks.

"Like it? It's, fuck." Frank finally turns to face him. "It's amazing. And I was an asshole."

"No you weren't," Gerard says.

"Yeah, I was. You were - I haven't hung out with the artist types much since I took out my lip ring, but that was no excuse for me to be a shit when you were just trying to ask questions."

"Well," Gerard says, scratching the inside of his nose, "I probably could've asked those all at once. And you were busy with-" he stops. "Wait, you had a lip ring?"

"Uh, yeah, right here," Frank points to his bottom lip. "Punk rock star, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," Gerard says, staring at Frank's lip. Frank is pretty sure Gerard doesn't even realize that he's just licked his lips.

Frank takes a small step forward - it's not like they were far apart to begin with - and licks his bottom lip again, watches Gerard mimic him.

"Frank?" Gerard's eyes flick up to meet Frank's.

Frank leans in, tilting his chin up just so, but pauses before there's actual contact. He wants to make sure he's not about to sexually harass his client or anything. "Ge-"

Gerard cuts him off, pressing his lips against Frank's before letting is tongue lick the spot where Frank's lip ring used to be. Frank lifts one hand to the back of Gerard's neck, letting it tangle in his hair, just a little - no one would notice if he messed it, anyway - and mourns the fact that there isn't a piece of metal for Gerard to tug on lightly with his teeth. It's kind of hard to be sad, though, when Gerard's hands slip under Frank's jacket, warm through the thin cotton of Frank's t-shirt, and Frank can bite down on Gerard's lip just enough to make him moan.

"Ah. Mr. Way? The gallery is about to open and the guests should be arriving very shortly."

"_Fuck_," Gerard says, pulling back to let his temple rest against Frank's forehead.

"Uh, thanks, Chip, we'll, uhm."

"I think maybe I should go get a glass of champagne," Frank says, even though moving is the last thing he wants to do.

"I'll come with you," Gerard agrees quickly.

"Don't you have to - ?" Frank asks, not really sure what the end of his question is.

"Yeah, but I was kind of hoping you'd let me drag you into a bunch of boring conversations with people you don't know," Gerard says hopefully, practically gluing himself to Frank's side on the way back to the refreshments table.

Greta and Gabe are smirking at him as they talk to Mikey, who has his back firmly towards Frank and Gerard.

"You've got a fucked up idea of foreplay," Frank says, grinning when Gerard's cheeks go red. "But I'm game."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] By The Numbers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089725) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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